


Human Connection

by lary



Series: Control [4]
Category: House M.D.
Genre: BDSM, M/M, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-18
Updated: 2013-10-18
Packaged: 2017-12-29 18:55:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1008860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lary/pseuds/lary
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>House is occupied by finding out what is wrong with a famous baseball player, and what Wilson and Foreman are hiding from him.</p>
<p>House POV; set around S1 episode 12 Sports Medicine.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Human Connection

**Author's Note:**

> I don't own them.

 

 

House tracked Foreman suspiciously while running the differential on Hank Wiggen.

He'd been late. 

And Foreman-- Foreman was never late.

What irked House more than the lateness was that he didn't know why. What he did know for sure was that it _wasn't_ car trouble, as the neurologist had claimed.

House sent Chase to treat the patient. Foreman was making himself coffee – dressed, as always, in boring formal work clothes that he somehow managed to make look better than was objectively possible – and acting as if nothing weird was going on.

Until today, nothing weird had been going on – during the past ten days (not that House was counting) neither of them had mentioned the night they had spent together. A spectacularly stupid idea, if there ever had been one. He didn't do that – get involved – and definitely not with people he worked with.

House had been relieved to see Foreman acting as usual at work. Despite of how much Foreman's poker face generally frustrated him, for once House was happy about it. He was convinced that nobody had been able to tell, an impressive feat in itself considering PPTH and its nosy staff.

But today Foreman was acting differently.  
  
House looked at Foreman contemplatively. Definitely more nonchalance than situation warranted. “If your car breaks down, you’re an hour late, not two minutes. And two minutes isn’t late enough to use a clever excuse like car trouble.”  
  
“I was coming in early,” Foreman claimed offhandedly. Seriously. There was no way the neurologist could be expecting him to fall for that.  
  
“Huh,” House remarked. “Unprompted lies, that’s a bad sign. Either a guilty conscience or something personal is going on.”

Foreman didn't reply, so House stared at him until he got his attention. “See, that’s all you had to do,” he said. “Just walk in, sit down, do your job.”

Foreman didn't grace him with an answer, and House left him breakfasting with Cameron. This was so not over.  


 

**

 

 

House saw Wiggen's wife through the glass, and mentally cursed, bracing himself for an annoying conversation as he opened the door to his office. “Oh, I’m sorry Doctor,” he stated. “I didn’t know you were busy. Want me to come back?”  
  
“Is he on the list?” she demanded.  
  
“No.” Cuddy had refused to put Hank Wiggen on transplant list without a definite diagnosis. He wasn't likely to survive without a new kidney.

Terminal patients really had the most irritating families.  
  
“Then I’m giving him one of mine,” the wife said.  
  
House barely restrained himself from calling her an idiot. “Okay.”  
  
“You’re not gonna tell me it’s a bad idea? Why give a kidney to someone who might not be able to use it?”  
  
“Not my area,” House replied. “That is, however, my chair.”  
  
The wife got up. “When do we do it?”  
  
House reclaimed his seat before answering. “Very noble gesture. My favourite kind: dramatic, yet completely empty. The chances of non-identical twins being a match--”  
  
She interrupted him. “Do you live alone?”  
  
How nice. This was going to get _personal_. “You writing a book?”  
  
“I made it a question just because it’s more polite,” she said. “You got a big 'keep out' sign stapled on your forehead.”  
  
“That explains it. I told them to put it on my door.”  
  
“Even if real human contact is something you don’t have or even want, or need, you should at least be able to see it in other people,” she said oh so earnestly.  
  
House gritted his teeth. He reminded himself that her husband was dying and counted to five before giving up the attempt for self-restraint. “Yeah. Right. True love. That's just how we match organs these days. There's a couple in France, high school sweethearts. They're trading brains.”  


She ignored him. Why listen to medical professionals, after all. “We’re a match,” she claimed. “Run your tests.”

With that, the insufferable woman left. House considered calling his team members, who were slacking off somewhere. He briefly considered paging Chase, but decided that the lab morons could handle the unnecessary testing. He called the nurses' station before settling comfortably in his chair.

Finally.

House got the envelope out of his pocket and placing it on the table. He ran his fingers reverently over the monster truck tickets, anticipating Wilson's expression when he'd see them. All access passes and damn difficult to come by.

He grinned, leaning back in his chair. Wilson would drop by in the next hour – the man was predictable as a clockwork. All House had to do was wait.

 

**

 

Wilson didn't look up when House entered his office, but protested vehemently when he made to grab the doughnut from his hand and slumped down on his couch.

“What's yours is mine,” House informed him, mouth full. Wilson had no place to say anything. The oncologist had declined House's invitation to monster trucks and, moreover, he was lying about the reason. Not only was that shitty best friend behaviour, House was now stuck going with _Cameron_.

“Sorry, must have slipped my mind,” Wilson said dryly, and House resented the front of normalcy. Like he thought House stupid enough to not find out that he'd lied about the cancer dinner that had been his excuse for declining. Wilson could go fuck himself for all he cared.

“You're getting dinner, as well,” House told him. “You're the one who forced me to treat that moron,” he then added. Wiggen was refusing a kidney from his wife, who had been a match against all odds.

“Actually, it was the possibility of beating the Yankees that convinced you to treat him, not me.”

“Well, that's out the window when he's dead,” House scowled.

“He's not suicidal. She can't donate when she's pregnant.”

“If only doctors could do something about that,” House mused. The wife had already insisted on abortion, but Wiggen had refused. “He's throwing his life away for a lump of cells.”

“It's his child!”

“Not yet, it isn't,” House stated, shoving the rest of the doughnut in his mouth.

“Last time I checked, you thought she was a moron for wanting to donate in the first place. I believe your exact description of her was something along the lines of 'blind, romantic idiot'.”

“He's a drug addict, he doesn't deserve her sympathy, let alone her kidney. Speaking of drugs,” House noted, digging the Vicodin bottle out of his pocket. He took the pill deliberately slowly and observed Wilson averting his eyes.

“She loves him,” the oncologist argued, ignoring House's pill popping. Wilson never tired of nagging, so the lack of reaction confirmed what House already suspected – last week's detox had been Wilson's idea. The meddling bastard was now feeling guilty, as House had nearly killed the patient while off Vicodin.

House let his irritation bleed into sarcasm. “Yeah, seeing how happy that's making her is a real advertisement for that human connection everybody keeps going on about.”

“Yes. And her husband almost dying wouldn't be skewing your sample at all in the happiness department.”

“Of course you'd be all for the caring, with your ex wives and your cancer kids.”

Wilson shifted uncomfortably. House listened to the insincere fidgeting for a while, but it was immediately clear that Wilson wasn't going to fess up to the real reason for declining monster trucks.

House got up from the sofa, resisting his urge to scowl. “Gotta go. Team must have uncovered another lie he's told her,” he remarked, cutting off the other man mid-sentence. He took off towards his office and left a slightly surprised Wilson staring after him.

 

**

 

House cursed under his breath as he got into the elevator. The patient had tried to off himself, and when House had gone to speak with him, he'd been rewarded with urine all over him.

As if that wasn't enough, Wilson caught up with him when he got off on their floor.

House had hacked into both Wilson's and Foreman's calendars, and both had Friday night marked off but neither held details. Both of them were hiding something from him, Foreman with whatever was making him late from work and Wilson with whatever he was choosing over monster trucks. Monster trucks, damn it.

House was determined to get to the bottom of it. They had it coming if they were stupid enough to think he wouldn't find out.

House listened to Wilson's remarks about his wet jeans, before his anger bubbled over. “Why should I trust someone who lies about what he's doing Friday night?” he asked, turning to glare at Wilson, who looked caught. The idiot. “Question is, what are you really doing Friday night? Or more to the point, what could possibly be better than monster trucks?” he demanded. “Or are we breaking up?” he added, sarcastically, before leaving Wilson in the corridor and rummaging his bag for clean clothes. He gritted his teeth when he heard the door open and close again.  
  
“Stacy is coming into town this weekend, we're having dinner. Just catching up.”  
  
“I definitely had pants here,” House muttered, and then turned to Wilson, without much interest. “Wait a second, is that Stacy the Stripper? I heard she’s playing Atlantic City.”  
  
Wilson was silent for a minute, arising his suspicions. “No, Stacy the Constitutional Lawyer,” he then said.

Right. _The Ex._ His, not Wilson's.  
  
“You thought I couldn’t handle this news.”

Wilson looked like a kicked puppy, which was frustrating, because it made House feel guilty for wanting to kick him more. Wilson would've deserved it for the lying and coddling. House forced himself to calmness. “You talk to her a lot?”  
  
“No. It's been a long time,” Wilson said. “If you don't want me to see her--”  
  
“What is this, eighth grade? I'm fine.”  
  
Wilson, of course couldn't leave it alone. “It's fine if you're upset--”  
  
“No!” House exclaimed, before steadying himself. Yelling at Wilson would make him even more convinced that he was right. _Protecting him_. The bastard. “I have no right to be upset. You two are friends,” he continued in a level voice. “You should see her. Say hi for me.”  
  
“So…you're okay.”  
  
House gave up with the search for new pants in his bag, and left his office with a final remark about bald kids. He banished any thoughts about Wilson or Stacy as he left to get changed.

 

**

 

House's research on Foreman's activities had been disappointingly futile, so he resorted to the well-proved method of stalking. Only too late did he realise that Chase and Cameron were also at the restaurant. _The meeting with the drug rep. Right._ He almost left, but an instinct prompted him after them.

When he saw who the team were sitting with, his satisfaction returned. The pharmaceutical representative was sure looking spectacularly feminine. “So, you’re the new Arnie,” he said, looking at the woman.  


“Dr. House. It’s, uh, good to see you.”  
  
“Would you get me a coffee? Black, no sugar.” _Game on._ “Okay, so who is it?” he asked, when she left the table. “Come on, she's sleeping with one of you. Oh God, please tell me it’s you,” he added to Cameron, who looked appropriately incensed.  
  
“She buys lunches! She doesn't--”  
  
“Don' worry, you're not gay… you're adventurous!” House comforted.  
  
“You think she's gonna prostitute herself?” Chase asked. “The three of us are that important to her?”  
  
“I'm afraid not, no. The groupies sleep with the roadies in order to get to Mick.”  
  
“And you're Mick?” Foreman was really perfecting the glare. You'd almost think he was actually angry. House barely refrained from grinning.  
  
“That was the metaphor I was making, yes.”  
  
“Why are you here?” Foreman demanded.

If that was how he wanted to play it, fine. House let a victorious smile spread on his face. “Damn, it’s you.” Foreman looked suitably outraged, but House saw the flash in his eyes. He was good, but not good enough. House smirked, and then turned his full concentration on the drug rep's food and prompted the team for new ideas about the patient. Well, maybe not full concentration, but close enough.

 

**

 

Monster trucks and Cameron went together like ice cream and ketchup, House decided, as he picked up his backpack, readying himself to leave the hospital. He wondered when his sense of self-preservation had abandoned him, until he remembered he'd never had one.

“You free tomorrow?” Foreman asked from the doorframe.

“Nope. Wouldn't want you to cancel on the drug rep on my account, anyway.”

“Don't need to,” said Foreman while giving him a less than subtle once over.

“Wilson's coming over,” House said, mentally kicking himself as the words left his lips. It didn't matter that he had plans. The sex wasn't going to happen a second time, anyway. Even the first had been idiotic. Even if it had been good. Even if he had been jerking off to images of Foreman nearly every fucking evening ever since.

“Call me when he leaves.” Foreman looked irritatingly confident that House would, and only smiled at his scowl.

 

**

 

“So, how was your date with Cameron yesterday?” the oncologist asked, switching the channel.

House snagged the remote immediately, switching back. “It wasn't a date.”

“Cameron's gonna think it was.”

“No, she's not. She's not an idiot.” House glanced at the clock, which was approaching 10pm. He'd gradually come to the conclusion that the only thing more idiotic than having sex with Foreman again would be not to. However, Wilson was still happily parked on his couch, showing no signs of leaving.

At this point of the evening, if he was gonna have somebody over, House reckoned he might as well get sex out of it.

“By the way, you might want to go and tend to that miserable excuse of a relationship you call a marriage before you fall asleep there.”

“Right,” Wilson said, getting up reluctantly. “See you tomorrow.”

“Monday,” House corrected right before the door banged shut.

Foreman answered his phone after three signals. “Yeah.” Something hot coiled in the bottom of House's stomach.

“Get your ass over here, I'm not driving,” House informed him and hung up.

Foreman didn't waste any time getting there – to be fair, something House had always appreciated was his efficiency.

 _What the fuck what is it about him_ , House wondered as he let the man in and watched him leisurely shed his coat and start opening his shirt, dark eyes fixed on his. It was very few men that House was into, and it was never as clear and straightforward as it was with women. He didn't look at Foreman and think attractive, not the way he checked out women. But somehow Foreman, with his presence, simply emanated sex, and fuck if that wasn't intoxicating. House licked his lips unconsciously as more and more skin was revealed, and when Foreman walked over to him, shirtless, he couldn't resist tracking the muscles on his chest with his fingers.

And then Foreman's lips were hungry on his, wet and hot and wanting, and yeah, this was what it should be like – no obligatory conversation or social niceties, just a hard body driving him into the wall, heated touch all over and an unyielding mouth against his, making him drown on sensation and want.

And it was a different kind of satisfaction and desire that came from the groan Foreman released when House took a hold of his cock through his pants and rubbed his hand against the hard length. House worked his zipper open while mouthing along the lightly stubbled jawline.

“Yeah, yes, touch me,” Foreman gasped, and House would've liked to make a remark about how hard up Foreman was, but his mouth was rather more interestingly occupied with reacquainting itself with Foreman's tongue and swallowing the sounds of pleasure he was coaxing with each twist of fingers.

There was something stupidly gratifying about how fast he was able to make Foreman come undone, and House smirked to himself as he felt the other man shudder, the breathless groan of his release making its way straight to House's dick. It was only at that point that his leg reminded of his position. “Right,” House said, giving the other man a slight push. “Now that I've taken care of that, you can give me a blowjob. On the bed,” he added and made his way towards the bedroom.

“Not a problem,” Foreman replied once they were in the bedroom, looking at House in a way that sent shivers down his spine.

He pushed away the familiar self-consciousness as he took off his jeans, figuring the leg wasn't really anything Foreman hadn't seen before, and with some amusement he confirmed that it was rather different parts of his anatomy that the other man was focused on.

“Get on with it already,” House protested after he'd settled on the bed and Foreman had made no move to join him. House's dick twitched under the intense gaze trailing up and down his body.

There was a flash in the brown eyes, followed by a contemplative smirk. “I'm thinking you're missing something.” 

“Yeah, reciprocation,” House grumbled as Foreman stalked out from the room for God knew what reason. He felt frustrated, but his cock didn't seem to be minding the wait, throbbing in anticipation. When Foreman came back, House looked at him through narrowed eyes, feeling his mouth go dry at the sight of the cuffs that the surprisingly kinky son of a bitch had apparently brought with him.

“Hands up over your head.” There was a dark, deep edge in Foreman's voice that made something inside him tighten impossibly in a mixture of trepidation and raw desire, and it was almost without his own will that his hands moved upwards and stayed still, allowing Foreman to fasten them above his head, the leather circling his wrists in a tight embrace.

It was disconcerting how foggy his head felt as Foreman's mouth descended upon him, tracing his neck and shoulders with kisses and bites. In the moment he wouldn't have even cared about marks, but Foreman kept it almost too gentle until reaching his chest, and the harsher bites and suction made him arch off the bed with incoherent groans escaping his mouth. Foreman kept at it, paying attention to his nipples until they were straining hard, and fuck if it wasn't almost too good. House nearly whimpered when the other man bypassed his leaking cock altogether, continuing down his thighs instead.

“Fuck, you're a tease,” House growled, glowering when the fucking asshole actually laughed. “Don't think I won't get rev--” The threat was halted when Foreman took in one of his balls and sucked, the sensation rendering him incoherent.

And then the weight was shifting and House wondered idly what happened to the promise of a blowjob when Foreman was suddenly kissing him. Not that he took time to complain, when Foreman sucked on his tongue and simultaneously provided some delicious friction by pressing his reawakened erection against his groin.

However, the promise wasn't apparently forgotten, because Foreman moved off all too soon, reaching for a pillow. “Shit-- what the fuck?” House complained, at this point feeling even less patient than usual.

“I want to taste you more,” Foreman was murmuring in his ear. “I want to taste you _everywhere_ ,” he growled before moving downwards again. House wasn't too helpful when Foreman angled the pillow under him, and he blamed the state of near-painful arousal for the fact that it took a little while for it to click, the startling realisation only hitting him right before he felt Foreman spreading his ass cheeks apart, and he would've protested except that the capability was taken away with the first hot, wet stroke across his opening.

“Oh, ohh, Jesus--” House panted, and then his breath left him in a strangled yelp as Foreman's tongue breached him, pressing in and curling against the walls, so fucking wet and warm, House could do nothing but push into it, the goddamn paralysing need for more spurring his hips into movement as he tried to get more friction for his cock at the same time as he ached to be devoured, filled, taken.

As Foreman continued winding him up, House recognised the feeling – he was falling, sliding into the hazy feeling of surrender. Subspace, he knew that, he'd been there before after all, though not for a long time before this thing with Foreman. It didn't come to him naturally, relinquishing control was far from what he wanted, except that in this moment he couldn't bring himself to care, immersed in the sensation and heat and arousal. Some part of his brain was telling him that he should care. It was just that it was drowned by the overwhelming languidness that was taking over his body, making any thought, any movement, any resistance to what Foreman was doing to him, to the noises that were escaping – unrestrained moans and curses and, fuck it all, even begging – an effort that really didn't seem worth it.

The same part of his brain was overjoyed that Foreman was doing something enjoyable, but at the same time he just really didn't _care_ anymore, swept up in the the willingness, the unbearable need to be _used_ exactly as Foreman wanted, whatever, however he wanted, and that need made itself vocal despite the rational part that was telling him to keep his mouth shut, despite how difficult it had become to form words.

“I-- need-- God-- fuck-- use me-- what you want-- anything, whatever-- ohh, _fuck--_ yes--”

His attempt dissolved into incoherence once more with Foreman's fingers breaching him open, surrounding his cock, and House threw his head against the pillow, heedless of how Foreman was staring at him, hard hard hard. In his eyes there was something resembling awe, like he couldn't believe he could reduce House to this state, and House really couldn't blame the man because he would've denied it most vehemently if it wasn't for the way his body responded to each touch like it was fire and flames, and when Foreman moved on top of him, House's whole body clung to him like magnetised, dragging him down, and the heavy weight on him was all too good, and then it was even better when the blunt head of Foreman's cock pressed against his opening, pushing in steadily and barely fast enough for House's tastes, and it seemed not nearly fast enough for Foreman's, either, based on the trembling of his muscles, strung tight against House's body.

“Fuck, c'mon, move alr--” House growled, cut off when Foreman did, and shit it was so fucking good, the rough pleasure of Foreman taking him, hard and unrestrained, with House urging him on with his words until Foreman was pounding him hard enough to stop any verbal demands, until it seemed the other man held little more control than House did, until Foreman's fingers tightened around his cock and House's orgasm was taking him by surprise, hitting him with vengeance, finally finally, in searing heat and release that dragged the other man with him and left them both drained.

He hardly moved, feeling open and sated and content, and not caring whatsoever about anything beyond lying there while Foreman cleaned him off and released his hands, dropping off the towel in the bathroom. Once he shuffled back into bed, House opened his eyes enough to drag one of Foreman's arms on his chest.

The other man had an amused expression. “Open up,” he said, and House took the offered Vicodin with a satisfied grin.

“Mmh, decent service.”

“I may owe you that much.”

“You owe me a lot more than that, though Vicodin is always a good start. Almost makes up for that blowjob I never got.” House smirked lazily. “I'll make a list.”

Foreman settled himself closer, and really, it didn't seem House had it in him to care. He sighed in temporary defeat. Maybe later. Yeah, later.

The murmur was groggy in his ear. “I'm shivering in fear.”

“Oh, you will,” House threatened, though it would've probably held more weight if he hadn't been forced to yawn in the middle of the sentence.

He felt Foreman's annoying smirk against his skin. “Mm-hm. Go to sleep you bastard.”

House yawned again and burrowed into the bedding. He supposed there was time enough to start on the list tomorrow.

 

 


End file.
